Next Time
by margaretanne
Summary: A one shot fic. Ginny reflects on and reaches a conclusion regarding her unrequited love for Harry. My first fic--reviews are very much appreciated!


This fic is based on personal experience. I wrote it merely as a way of getting my feelings out, and then realized it applied to Ginny Weasley. After some tweaking on my part to make it more specific to HP, I ended up with this...

I would love any and all reviews, whether praise or criticism. This is my first fic, and I'd like to know what people think!

**  
  
Next Time**

It's always been easy for me to put my thoughts on paper—except when it comes to him. The words don't want to come out clearly. They don't flow. My feelings are so strong and yet so confused and never make sense when I try to write them out. Probably that's why I haven't tried until now.

I feel ashamed to write his name. I hesitate even to pen the feeling, the word—love. No one would believe that I am in love, even if I tried to persuade them. They would ridicule me. They'd tell me that I'm being juvenile. "You haven't even dated," they'd say. "How can you love someone you hardly talk to? Michael and I have been dating for five months and I don't love him." It doesn't matter that we haven't dated. It doesn't matter whether I talk to him frequently or not. The feeling is still there, and I cannot deny it. To tell me that it is not truly love is an insult. I know what I feel. I've felt it long enough, certainly, to recognize it for what it truly is.

It must be love. With him I finally learned to understand those silly experiences you read of in the romance novels they have on racks by check- out counters at your local grocer. I never thought they really happened. I'm not a dramatic person by any means. Whoever gets breathless and dizzy when the love of their life walks in the room? It's only supposed to be a fabrication of novelists' overactive minds. But it's true. Every time I see him I get that rush—that strange juxtaposition of pleasure with terror that hits me all at once, leaving my tongue tied and palms sweating.

If only for once, I would like to be able to speak around him—to say something, anything, interesting. Every time I leave him I berate myself. Next time, I say, I will amaze him with my wit. He will realize I am more than just a pretty face, and he will tell Ron that I am 'funny' instead of 'nice.' I hate the word nice. It is no compliment. People only use the word 'nice' to describe people to whom they are indifferent. I don't want him to be indifferent to me. On the contrary, I want him to love me as deeply as I do him. I want to be more than Ron's little sister. I want to able to leave him and know that I am still on his mind. I want to wow him. Do I ever? No. Although I tell myself 'next time' will be different, it never is. Still, I must remain optimistic. What other choice do I have?

I'm too far in to back out now. Instead I have to cling to what little hope I have. Every word or look he throws my way I welcome like a young child receiving a gift. I then proceed to tear it apart and analyze it from every possible angle. _Over_analyze would be more appropriate. I think of every possible hidden meaning, and I can turn any commonplace remark into a secret message of love or loathing, depending upon whether I am in an optimistic or pessimistic mood.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop loving him. There's a picture of him on my desk. It's a group picture, but every time I see it my eyes are captured and pulled directly to his face—one that I love and know so well—and I am filled with a longing that I can hardly describe. I can physically feel my heart aching in my chest. Subconsciously I place my hand to my breast, as if the pressure from my hand can stop the beating of my heart, which with each pulse pushes the blood that is alive with my love for him throughout my body, to my head, to my arms, and all the way to my toes. My whole being is consumed and burning with love for him, every time I hear his name or see his face. Truly love does hurt—you won't believe it until you experience it yourself. I was skeptical until now, but I have only to see him to feel the pain.

At this point in my musings, I always come to the same, daily epiphany: that this has gone to far, that I am wasting away with unrequited love, that I have to stop before I cease to be and only live to experience him. After I come to this conclusion for the umpteenth time, my mind begins to wage the familiar civil war, in which the sensible side of me tells me to get over him, and the romantic side protests. "I don't want to get over him!" it screams. "I don't care that you're in pain. I love him, and I refuse to give him up!" This side always wins. I must be a masochist.

It's funny how my thoughts of him always follow a pattern. Next I turn to daydreaming of a secret rendezvous or two in a deserted corridor or the astronomy tower, or, having grown tired of that plotline, I turn to the far future. My most recent dream is my favorite and most promising:

> Having aged to the approximate age of twenty-three (he being twenty-four), I have become cool and confident enough to leave _him_ speechless with my wit and charm. Of course, this is a dream, and you can magically change your personality in dreams. In this dream, I am no longer inhibited. We meet at Florean Fortescue's at Diagon Alley. I am wearing tailored, flattering robes, because I am an extremely successful employee at the Ministry of Magic. I am standing at the counter, ordering an ice cream, when he enters. He admires me from behind without knowing who I am. When he recognizes me, I am already out the door. He runs after me, forgetting to pay for his ice cream and knocking over a young boy in his haste. Florean yells after him, but he doesn't heed. He calls my name as I turn the corner of the block. I turn around to see him chasing after me (as well he should be). He finally stops a few feet in front of me, but he is not out of breath because of course he is in perfect shape and still has a delectable body. I recognize him and give him a slow smile, but still I remain cool, calm, and collected. By now everyone is staring in our direction. For once, he pays no attention. Usually he is bothered by stares directed at him, or his scar, but now he has eyes only for me. The exchange culminates in his taking me out to dinner. Afterwards, he cannot get his mind off me (for we must have him suffer as I do now, for a change), and it all concludes with the two of us getting married and having four perfect kids.

Sometimes they even seem real, my hallucinations, as it were. I suppose it's the closest I'll ever get to reality. My friends at least have something of substance to base their fantasies on. They all have their guys. How is it that I'm the only lonely one? Why am I pining for a boy I cannot have? And, dammit, why _can't_ I have him? Yes, he is famous. But he's only a normal boy. What is it that makes me unworthy of him? I have loved him for two years. I doubt any other girl could say the same. Not a real, pure love, like mine. All I want is to make him laugh, to make him smile, to dry his tears, to hold his hand, to listen to him talk. I think that is deserving if anything ever was. 

Also let's not forget the fact that I know more about him than any other girl. Every tidbit I've ever heard about him I snatched at hungrily and stored away in my mind. I know his favorite music, his birthday, his favorite sport. I know that he's secretly very sensitive, that he loves to win, that he's a loyal friend, that he takes the death of anyone he knows very hard, that he always accepts blame for his actions and sometimes the actions of others. I know that he doesn't know how to hard-boil eggs, that he doesn't like to clean his room, that he wants to get married and have kids, that he's considerate, that he's generous with his money, that he's humble, that he needs to be loved. It's not that I'm stalking him in any sense. This information was all volunteered to me. I didn't ask for it. I just remembered it.

Finally I come full circle back to where I started, with the knowledge that I love him and it is up to me to do something about it. I cannot depend upon my friends any longer. They've tried to help me—but there's really nothing they can do. Every time I've failed to make him like me, it's been my own fault. It's all on to me now. I can get him or I can't. I can win or I can lose. I'm not a quitter, and I hate losing as much as he does. He's going to see how entertaining, interesting, and charming I really am. I'm going to talk to him. Next time.


End file.
